Every day takes finding out how to live again

Hello. I tell you what, I've watched a fuckload of movies recently. I'm kind of holed up in my tiny flat like a shivering young pullet sensing a fox for the first time. Anyway I recommend 'Wassup Rockers' by Larry Clark, an Argentinian documentary 'The Dignity of the Nobodies', and 'The Darjeeling Limited'. All very worthy of fucking merit.


Wanky word of the moment is 'vicissitude'. Noone ever says it, it is snaky and a waste of time.


Here's another thing I'll tell you what about; the movies and their misrepresentations. Maybe just the physical as a starter. The real sound of a fist smashing into a face perhaps - a muted smack with a tint of crack and a light treble of squelch. Our modern culture has evolved a theatre that is more lewd and slap-happy than any Elizabethan bawdy house ever was.
It is fucking fun to see a representation of the physical in the movies that you yourself have experienced. Getting knocked the fuck out would be one in my case. Apparently if you're in a movie you get a good smack to the noggin and you are fucking down pal. Instant oblivion whether it be a pistol-whip or a good old headlong run into a massive piece of timber. My first time was the latter. The second was the same but into a wall. The third was skating alone, misjudged my weight on the board and catapulted backward with the back of my head leading the way.
On all three occasions there's been several moments (or eternities if you're in it) where I've been 'aware' before blackout. The first time (I was running full fucking pelt) I fell to the ground and got up, said "Jesus Christ help me", and then fell. The second I was in and out talking gibberish the whole time. The third was scary. Winter on my own in a deserted car park. As soon as my head hit that concrete I knew. Keeping the head still my body squirmed and scratched a bit before I passed out. Fuck knows how long I was out. The reason why people find 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' disturbing is it's realism.
Anyway my point is this, as anyone has taken a knock will tell you - it's the ringing sound in your head, all those brain cells dying. It's fucking awful. I have to turn down the volume for a large part of the beginning of 'Children of Men' because it replicates the sound in the antagonists' ears after a bomb blast. A character in it talks about it. They did the same thing in another movie I watched yesterday and it fucking freaked me out. My remote's fucked so I had to leap at the TV to turn it down. No mean feat when moments before I was recumbent with half-smoked spliff and regarding with wonderment the immense and inhospitable distance between my location on the couch and the on-the-horizon dining table, upon which a bottle of red stood waiting for me to attack. How the fuck was I going to get this gargantuan body of mine over there to imbibe of it's ruby-warm splendidness?


Don't fear dear reader; massive with wisdom and supine as I was, I eventually made it, and taught that bottle a lesson. 'Taught' doesn't look right. Is that shit even a word?


Tie down the chickens you motherfuckers; the Japanese are building a computer with all sorts of petraflops and teraflops and shit. A quadrillion calculations per second. When I start to think about that stuff I wish I was a nobleman condemned to death in the Revolution. On the day of my execution the guillotine is fucked so the axeman with his bad tendon in the shoulder has to get it done. He raises the huge axe to have it fall weakly on my neck. Two, three times. I am eventually finished off by a strong member of the baying crowd and the executioner is subsequently stoned to death for his gross incompetence.


I may have over-stated things there but it's Springtime and noone gives a fuck! How's the sap rising you bunch of little bitches? Laters.

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Hello. The concentration of wealth that has accelerated ten-fold in the last years discombobulates me. It is like the Ancien Regime, Louis XVI and that slag Antoinette, risen from the ashes in it's new corporate finery. The Oscars struck me as this grotesque spectacle where obscenely over-paid fuckwits preen and fatuously pose for the epilitic fit-instigating legions of cameramen, whose job it is to relay their images and quotes to the enthralled masses. Look how they live! How beautiful they are! Who's at the door? The repo man? Fuck!

I tell you want though, what really brings it home is fucking Sarkozy. The little bug-headed peacock strutting around pissing on any sense of grace that was left in his schizophrenic country. What a fucking tool. The epitome, the klaxon, of elitism at the expense of the 'ordinary' man or woman. See him at a country fair insulting a farmer who refused his handshake. The President of France telling a farmer to piss off. Let them eat cake in-fucking-deed.

Yeah so anyway I lied to you. I believe in my first post I listed shit I might look at. Well fuck that. I need to stay away from that stuff for awhile. The last six or seven years all I've done is my own private investigation into the world, and it's fucking done my head in. Friends became fearful, when I did make it out, that I would have a few and start railing against the world, which was often the case. There's times in a motherfucker's life when a motherfucker needs to come back to a motherfucker. Cocksucker?

One time back in the day in Holland I got fucking lamped by a huge bouncer outside a club. I'm only 5'8", and this cunt was all of 6'3" at least. It was like he was bowling in a game of cricket, a real over-arm haymaker, with his hard fist cracking into my upper lip with enthusiastic enthusiasm. I woke up in the morning in my bed at home in a village fifteen miles away. (The club was in Haarlem). To this day I have no recollection of how the fuck I got there. Anyway, there's nothing like waking up fucking fully clothed, absolutely drenched in blood. What really adds a delight though is moving one's mouth, to yawn perhaps. You ever tried screaming without opening your gob too much? It's a throat thing, and you sound like a mule who is suffering very, very much. It was the dried blood and scab tissue that had formed overnight in the deep little cleft of blunt-forced lip. It really hurt. And it didn't scar either thank fuck. I've got enough of those cunts.

Since I've become quite reclusive and I'm not in a sexual relationship, I've been wondering if while masturbating, giving it the quick five-knuckle shuffle, having a Sherman, talking to the hand, polishing the rod, spanking the monkey (ooh you cheeky monkey you), playing pocket pool, choking the chicken (If you are of the female persuasion then of course buffing the muffin while polishing the peanut should suffice), maybe I should stick something up my arse. I've known men who like their women to digitize that so-personal tightness. I don't think I'm one of them to be honest. I was horny in bed the other night and I was just getting into it and I thought, what if? My hand moved from my mammoth pole to my upper thigh, and suddenly I froze. After a minute or so I turned to face the wall and gently fell asleep. I tell you what life is a mad laugh.

I bet in the olden days the word 'turnpike' was derogatory.

Laters.